


All Work and No Play Makes Johnny a Dull Boy

by Trapelo_Road475



Category: Emergency!
Genre: M/M, PWP, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 20:25:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1198635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trapelo_Road475/pseuds/Trapelo_Road475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnny and Roy are cold and wet and half-drowned.  Dixie tells them to go clean up, which they do, as only they can.</p><p>pwp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Work and No Play Makes Johnny a Dull Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a friend.

Johnny's cold. He's soaked through and shivering and it's full dark out now, not even the barest hint of a moon past the haze of city lights, it's raining, and he is _absolutely freezing_ and California is not supposed to be this cold. There's got to be some kind of law about it. Okay, he thinks, okay maybe in the Sierras, where it like, actually snows, sometimes, where they've got ski resorts and things, way up north and in the high mountains, _maybe._

But not in Los Angeles. It barely even _rains_ in Los Angeles and it's a damned deluge, and he's double-soaked - not just from the storm but from the rising water in the river, where they have spent what feels like _hours_ trying to rescue four joyriding, scared teenagers from the tiny sportscar that probably (hopefully) belongs to one of their parents. 

They're alright now - soaked and wide-eyed, bruised and scraped, but alright - and he's handed them off to the good doctors at Rampart. They're alright. When he leaves the treatment room, boots squeaky on the linoleum, Dixie is looking at the muddy streak he's left down the hallway. She looks at him, her eyes widen, and her eyebrows head up somewhere near her uniform hat. She's got that look her face, the ol' Dixie McCall I'd ask but I know you by now face.

"I know, I know," Johnny says, "quit drippin' on the floor and there's dry scrubs in the supply closet."

"Where's Roy?" 

"Squad," Johnny says. He feels like a drowned rat. No, cat. Like a cat. A sad little kitten in the gutter. That's better. Rats are creepy. Kittens get pity. Nurses like kittens, right? 

"Laundry just brought a new rack up," Dixie says, nodding down the hall toward the supply closet. "Grab some for Roy. Get dried off and don't let me see either of you in here again tonight."

"With any luck - "

Johnny turns. Roy has appeared from the squad, and Johnny hopes that he looks slightly less haggard, maybe slightly more adorably pitiful than Roy does. Roy looks like someone's laundry that got left in the machine. Back in August, they'd gone camping and swam in a river, well, a little more than swam and thank god it was a pretty secluded place, but, either way, that was a fun kind of wet, Johnny thinks. This is _not_ a fun kind of wet. This is definitely a not fun, do not recommend, not safe for small children and pets kind of wet. 

" - with any luck," Roy continues, quirking a damp smile, "the rain will make people think twice about getting themselves hurt, right?"

"How's the rest of the shift?" Dixie asks. 

"Probably back at quarters," Johnny grumbles. "Warm'n'dry'n havin' some of Mike's leftover stew warmed up, and they'll probably eat all of it and - "

" - don't," Roy says, " - not with the stew - "

Dixie is making the other face. The I can't laugh at you because I'm a nurse and that's not professional face. Johnny doesn't mind when she laughs at him. Not like with the other nurses, or Roy. She's like a sister. Sisters are allowed to knock him down a few pegs. Laugh at him for being wet and smelly with leaves in unmentionable places. 

Dr. Morton calls for her from down the hall, and she excuses herself. 

Johnny bumps his way into the laundry-supply-decon-miscellaneous-room, whose secondary purpose is the glorified-hose-jockey-washdown-room. There is, like Dixie said, a big rack of clean linens, and the industrial sink and a cramped decon shower and a cart of dirty linen. There's a mop bucket with a hose curled into it, and a big drain in the tile floor. Last time he was in here, he recalls, a woman who'd overdosed had vomited blood all over his uniform, and Roy'd been helping him hose down the grotesque mess. He appreciated Roy's help. Of course, they were on duty, so there wasn't time to properly appreciate Roy's help, and Roy probably wouldn't have gone for it anyway, but - 

A click turns his head. Huh. He had not realized there was a latch on the door. Why hadn't he realized that? Would've made good use of it, if he'd - 

"Here," Roy says. 

Roy does not have to help him with his shirt. Johnny doesn't complain. He sputters. 

"Sorry for back there, on scene," Roy is saying, "if I hadn't slipped with the rope, I wouldn't have knocked you in the water."

"It's alright." Johnny feels significantly warmer. "Ummmmmm Roy. Roy?"

"What?"

Roy's hands are on his belt. 

Johnny looks down. Hopefully in a very meaningful way. 

Roy shrugs. His shirt is stuck to him. Ordinarily, Johnny would like to appreciate when Roy's clothes stick to him. Ordinarily, it would be very hot and they'd be in the water somewhere and clothes would be as optional as possible. "I'm cold," Roy sighs, "I'm soaking wet, I smell like all the storm drains in Los Angeles, and I dropped you into the river in the dark in the middle of a thunderstorm."

"So this is like ... an apology?"

"No, I'm already sorry for it. This is more like having a hard shift and going out for a real big breakfast at the end of it."

"...so, what, I'm pancakes?"

"Sausage," Roy deadpans.

It is probably the hour and the fact that he's soaking wet and has leaves in unmentionable places but Johnny absolutely cracks up, and once he gets going, Roy starts wheezing along too, water dripping from his shirt and his hair. 

"And you think I'm bad?"

"Get in the shower." Still laughing, Roy shoves him, and twists the handle in the little shower just-so - credit to Roy, credit to something, he knows exactly how to tweak the handle so it holds steady between glacial torrent and Hawaiian volcano. They get out of the rest of their clothes and Roy drags him under the heat and leaves and the odd twig and is that a piece of twine? fall onto the floor of the shower and Roy kisses him and Johnny wonders why he never noticed there is a fucking _latch on the door_. Because latches are pretty much the best thing ever right now, with the possible exception of - 

Oh. 

" - don't bump the handle - " 

" - which handle - "

" - don't be a brat, either, junior."

In spite of what his dates think, he does usually feel bad that he's - well, quick. On the other hand - on Roy's hand, specifically - it has certain advantages, like the fact that they are still technically on duty and this needs to be - to be - 

A light breakfast?

He's going to get distracted thinking about food because although he's not cold anymore, he's definitely hungry. 

"What're you thinking about?" Roy is kissing him and he isn't thinking about anything except Roy's hard-on.

"Bacon," he says dreamily.

Roy inhales like he's going to say something, but it's a Dixie kind of I'm not going to say anything because I know you too well and your hand is on my cock.

Roy turns him around so his back's against Roy's chest, and Roy's arms are around him, Roy humping away at him, which is basically his all-time-favorite-not-actually-fucking position, and except for giving head, which is an entirely different subheading of both awesome sex and oral sex. He's organized. He can be organized. He can rattle off appropriate medication combinations for any number of conditions, _and_ name at least six different positions for oral sex _alone_ off the top of his head.

"Still cold?"

"Nuh-uh. Kinda wet though."

Roy grunts. "Really."

"Just - " gasping - " -a little." 

Sex with Roy is, about sixty per cent of the time, a pretty leisurely affair. Not 'cause Roy is old or anything, but just 'cause that's his style. The take-your-sweet-damn-time-and-drive-Johnny-absolutely-fucking-insane style. Which Roy has perfected. Thirty per cent falls under the category of I-don't-care-if-we-break-the-box-spring-or-the-bed, which makes Johnny feel like he's walking on tip-toe if he so much as considers thinking of it. 

Leaving ten per cent for straight-up-horny sex, which is this, in the shower, Roy's hand moving on his cock, Roy's face in his shoulder, and Roy's erection rubbing at him. Everything has its merits. 

He comes hard, not embarassingly quickly, but giddily, leaving him wobbly. Roy grunts, grips his arm in a way that he hopes doesn't leave a bruise or if it does that he can think of an explanation that seems marginally plausible if someone (say, Cap) asks, and Johnny knows he's gotten off because he could be standing in the middle of a dark room blindfolded and tell, from breath sound alone, whether or not Roy's gotten his rocks off. 

Roy turns off the shower, Johnny gets the towels, and they dry off and dress in scrubs.

"...I'm guessing there won't be any stew left when we get back, huh?"

"Always thinking with your stomach."

"Not _always_."

Roy laughs. "C'mon. Let's go."


End file.
